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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26503285">Meet Cute</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart'>Reneehart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bedelia is an alcoholic from dealing with hannibals gay pining ass, Cannibalism, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Murder, Obsessive Hannibal Lecter, Torture, Will Graham is So Done, Youve got mail but instead of mail its murder tableaux, a romcom but make it horrifying and surreal, but not no adam sandler sorry guys, he just wants to live with his dogs, like fifty first dates but with less adam sandler, so tags will be updated accordingly, the hannigram romcom literally no one asked for, there will probably be explicit sexual content, will plays hard to get and hannibal plays hard to love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:08:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26503285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Perhaps my initial interpretation of you was incorrect,” Hannibal said, words chosen carefully and spoken slowly- allowing them and their disappointment to settle. “Maybe Uncle Jack was right to see you as a fragile teacup, taken out only for special occasions.”</p><p>Will scoffed, eyes narrowing as he considered Hannibal beneath the fan of his lashes. “Or maybe you were right. I am a mongoose under the house waiting for snakes to slither by. Maybe I just see you for the snake you are.”</p><p>Or, Will stands by his decision to not investigate any more crimes after the Hobbs case, forcing Hannibal to get creative in inserting himself into the life of his newest obsession.</p><p>A romcom set up, now with more murder and cannibalism!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>338</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This idea was inspired by a brief chat with another user about how hilarious it would be to watch Hannibal bend over backward to get Will's attention if Will was more firm in his desire to be Done With That Shit (TM) after the first case. </p><p>I'm not entirely sure how far this will go, explicit content-wise, but these two are so horny I'm not taking any chances and have just chosen not to rate it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hannibal considered himself a forgiving person.</p><p> </p><p>No, really- he did.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, his victims might disagree with such an attribute, punished for crimes they barely recalled, so insignificant an act that lead to the signature signed across their death certificate. Elevated into art in death from their own boorish behavior.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, despite all claims to the contrary that might arise if one asked those victims- presuming that they could still answer- Hannibal <em>was</em> forgiving. He understood that manners and etiquette were often furloughed in times of distress, and he didn’t fault others for minor infractions; certainly not children or teenagers who should know better but were ill-equipped to <em>act</em> better thanks to a slowly developing biology. Truly, it was only <em>malicious</em> rudeness that struck his ire, a pig stepping out of their way in order to be a hindrance or make a mockery of someone or do something so startlingly against the unspoken rules of society that he felt his hand was pulled into action.</p><p> </p><p>And sometimes even malicious rudeness had its exceptions, as was the case when Will Graham glanced at him that morning, eyes flicking to the stoneware container warming his hands and gave a curt <em>no thanks</em> before slamming the door in Hannibal’s face.</p><p> </p><p>An action so unexpected Hannibal could only offer two blinks as he stared at the motel door- paint peeling away in flecks to reveal the cheap particle board beneath, the room number in metal numbers that were once silver but were now too tarnished and too rusted. It was rude, a consistent pattern in regards to the surly criminal profiler- apologies, <em>criminal profiler on loan</em>, as he had made certain to identify himself as, refusing to acknowledge his role in crime scenes as anything more permanent.</p><p> </p><p>But perhaps Hannibal was to bear the partial burden of such blame. After all, he had overstepped boundaries first, prodding at Will in Jack’s office even as he knew such prodding would be unappreciated. His curiosity overwhelmed him at the promise of such a unique individual and he could hardly resist the desire to offer the first of what he anticipated to many lobs at Will's various walls.</p><p> </p><p>Will’s rudeness was a response to that, a defense mechanism to further obscure him from the world and to keep his guards firmly in place. A case-study of a brain that he kept behind the armor of his crudeness, his words sharpened like weapons that fell from his tongue. Hannibal imagined there were many things sitting in the shadows of the man’s mind that he didn’t like to examine and that he certainly didn’t want others examining.</p><p> </p><p>The breakfast was meant to be a peace offering for his own infractions, and though Hannibal was more than a little miffed as he turned on his heel and retreated into his own room- the uneaten protein scramble still, pathetically, clutched in his grasp- he decided he couldn’t hold it against Will too much. It was presumptuous on his end to take the liberty of preparing breakfast when he wasn’t even certain of his dietary preferences or if he even deigned to eat something heartier than a cup of coffee and a stale toaster pastry at such an hour. It seemed he even woke him prematurely, greeted by the image of Will standing in the door with disheveled hair and blinking eyes, wearing nothing more than a thin cotton shirt and some boxers.</p><p> </p><p>No, he would forgive Will this trespass, move forward in their blossoming relationship as they investigated the case of the missing girls in Minnesota.</p><p> </p><p>And if he delighted a little too much in letting the flimsy cardboard file organizer slip from his hands- documents and paperwork strewing the ground in a mess that he left Will to clean up- well, it was only fair.</p><p> </p><p>He had a phone call to make, after all.</p><p> </p><p>~x~</p><p> </p><p>The first thing that struck Hannibal when he laid eyes upon Will was his beauty. Like the subject of a Boticelli painting stepping down from a gilded frame, he was perfectly crafted and a masterpiece of creation. Thick, dark curls that formed a halo around the sharp angles of his face, a broad jaw that tapered into a rounded chin with neatly manicured stubble. His eyes were a bright and vivid blue, gazing at fixed points from beneath a fan of lashes and refusing to meet Hannibal’s glance.</p><p> </p><p>He was lovely in a way that seemed ancient; like the depictions of heroes and gods left only to marble and crackling oil on canvas. A god of war, demanding sacrifice as the sight of him covered in blood was so natural, so breathtaking it was impossible to see him as anything but.</p><p> </p><p>Flecks of blood dotted his face in perverse constellations, smeared across the thick glass of his spectacles, and bisecting his vision in red. His hands were coated in it, cheap watch ruined, and the edges of his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms were a dark, saturated red.</p><p> </p><p>Not his own blood, but the blood of the family whose home they sat in front of, red and blue lights strobing across the yard. Louise Hobbs’s body had been taken away quickly, zippered up in a bag and tossed into a van like luggage, leaving only a pool of blood on the front step. Hers was the first to warm Will’s hand when he dropped to his knees and attempted to stem the flow of blood before realizing it was too late- that her eyes were already glassy and distant and the pulse within her veins had diminished.</p><p> </p><p>Next came Garrett Jacob Hobbs, his blood splattering Will’s face with each purposeful if erratic pull of the trigger. Blue eyes splotched red and narrowed in righteous hate, a determination hardening the crisp and fractured lines of his iris.</p><p> </p><p>Even more blood stained his hand as he set the gun down- smeared red and glistening- and attempted to hold together the seams of Abigail Hobbs’s throat. Arterial blood seeping between his trembling fingers until he relented, stepping aside so that Hannibal’s more practiced hands could piece her back once more.</p><p> </p><p>And now Will sat in the driver’s seat of his FBI issued rental car, unconcerned by the contamination of his red fingers squeezing against the steering wheel. Covered in the blood of a slaughtered family that he tried to save but had been unable to. Though Abigail was still alive when she was pulled away in an ambulance- sirens blaring and lights blinking- her pulse was thready and weak, lips turning the color of wine as more and more blood poured from her.</p><p> </p><p>Even if she did survive, it would only be in pieces. Fragments of a girl who had otherwise been killed on the linoleum floors of the kitchen- breakfast left to cool and rot on the table. A crude facsimile of a family portrait, stained in blood and flesh torn apart.</p><p> </p><p>It was one of the many realities Hannibal envisioned might happen when he called Hobbs, and his chest was full and warm with the opportunity it presented, striding across the yard and toward the parked car.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you alright, Will?” he asked, watching as his voice tugged Will into the moment- away from whatever scattered and meandering thoughts were cluttering up his head. He glanced at Hannibal- blue eyes meeting bourbon for only a second before averting to somewhere behind his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” he said tersely, sliding his right hand from the steering wheel so that he pinched the keys in the ignition. He twisted it, the engine turning and roaring to life. “Just glad the case is over.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure you must be overwhelmed. It’s never easy to take a life, even if it’s to save another,” Hannibal said, his voice lowered and warm- a trained tone he had perfected, the syrupy thickness and sweetness lulling others. Placating and soothing tones that invited trust and companionship free of judgment.</p><p> </p><p>Will grunted in response, the edges of his mouth twitching. “It was pretty easy, actually. I pulled the trigger a few times and suddenly the guy with a knife wasn’t a problem,” he seethed, words pulled through a roughened throat.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal stilled, head tilting to the side as he arched a brow in interest. “The emotional weight of such actions can be a formidable burden, even to those we often view as strong and detached. Even Atlas crumples and strains under the weight of the celestial heavens from time to time. Tell me, Will, do you often defer to double entendres and pointed phrasing to separate yourself from emotional attachments and the confrontation of your inner turmoil?”</p><p> </p><p>Will narrowed his eyes, his offense at the question writ on his blood-speckled face. “You’re not my therapist, <em>Doctor Lecter</em>,” he spat, the words like venom he flung from his lips. After a moment he added, in a harshly spoken whisper that Hannibal suspected was meant to be audible, “thank god.”</p><p> </p><p>A response was readied on his tongue- a concise argument that Will’s unique disorder enabled him to hunt Hobbs by becoming him, and in doing so the grief and anguish of his surrogate daughter and wife and self covered in blood was as visceral a thing as if they were his own trappings- but it moved no further from behind his teeth, forced to take a sudden step back when Will pulled the gearshift into drive and pulled away from the curb.</p><p> </p><p>Will Graham was straining Hannibal’s charity- testing the tenuous allowance of his forgiveness by being brazenly and shamelessly <em>rude</em>. An action made all the more jarring and condemning since the two had <em>ridden in together</em> and the sight of his ride turning into a shapeless form as it sped down the residential street- barely slowing for the neighbors who crowded around the police line with morbid curiosity that masqueraded itself as concern- made something tremble in his chest. A growl, unformed and unrealized, kept caged within the prison of his ribs.</p><p> </p><p>The problem had a quick remedy, though. A pleasant one that soothed the disdain warming within him.</p><p> </p><p>“Would it be an inconvenience to ride with you, Agent Crawford?” Hannibal asked as he came to stand side by side with the agent, offering him an indulgent smile. “It would appear my ride needed some time alone.”</p><p> </p><p>Jack turned to him, brows furrowed. “You mean Will? Is he okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal sighed, the sound soft and delicate as it fluttered in the space between them, a sharp contrast to the blaring shouts of crime scene unit techs as they directed themselves around. A choreograph in murder and forensics. “He seems to be in a disassociative state, as far as I can tell. Unable to tether himself to the reality at hand. He killed a man today, Jack. A man that he allowed to sink so deeply into his brain that the two were indistinguishable,” he said, voice hushed and solemn.</p><p> </p><p>Jack gave a slow nod, lips pursed in thought. “I’ll order him a psych eval, then. Doctor Lecter, you wouldn’t by any chance mind-”</p><p> </p><p>He smiled, a grin that revealed what at first glance seemed like too many teeth. “Of course not. I feel I owe it to him, after all,” he answered, gesturing to the blood-stained porch, littered with yellow evidence tags.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. I know Doctor Bloom is close with him so I wouldn’t want to ask her,” he said, eyes following the flourish of Hannibal’s wrist as he added, “Are <em>you</em> alright, Doctor? You understand that there’s nothing you or Will could have done.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do, to a degree,” he said, ducking his head as if made humble in the face of death and tragedy. “Though the nature of these things is that they rarely listen to reason. I can’t help but feel if we had just arrived a little bit sooner, or if we had caught one less traffic light, all this could have been avoided. But you needn’t worry, Jack. I have a psychiatrist of my own.”</p><p> </p><p>Relief flushed his face, and a large hand clapped heavily on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Good, good. I'm going to need you in good shape if I'm sending Will you're way. Hopefully, he won't break you and make you reconsider your profession," he said, humor tinting the words as he led Hannibal to his SUV, back turning to the blood on the entranceway of the home built in bones and flesh.</p><p> </p><p>~x~</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Did you just rubber stamp me?” Will asked, a brow arched in indignation of such an action. Peeved, perhaps, that he had been in a position to need rubber stamping in the first place and his anger only flaring at the unspoken notion that he was in need of the care of a therapist. His dislike for Hannibal’s profession was the first topic of conversation each moment they came together, and the bitterness and open disdain made the ends of his mouth flick upward in a small smile.</p><p> </p><p>There was something endearing about his surliness; his manners- or lack thereof- were less incitation for murder than they were a source of entertainment. Barbed words spoken through gritted teeth in the hopes of keeping others at a distance and Hannibal imagined a blossoming rapport would reveal something more refined. That the southern niceties and trained politeness from his childhood would come forward in time- as if Hannibal needed to prove his worth.</p><p> </p><p>A challenge he was prepared for, eager for a glimpse into the curious and guarded mind of the man currently striding down the ladder.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Jack Crawford can lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn’t break you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork,” Hannibal intoned, rising from the chair and crossing the distance between them, the paperwork in question held outward.</p><p> </p><p>Will grunted in response, eyes cast down as he reached forward, accepting the document with a snarl curled on his lips. “I feel like a kid getting a doctor’s note to allow me in the recess yard,” he drawled, folding it into quarters and slipping it into his back pocket. “Jack thinks I need therapy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jack seems to think of you like a fragile little teacup, only to be reserved for special guests," Hannibal said with a smile, folding his hands across his laps and lacing his fingers together. "What you need is a way out of dark place when Jack sends you there.”</p><p> </p><p>“By guests, you mean serial killers? What do you see me as?" Will asked, face twisted in wry amusement at Hannibal's words.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal considered it for only a moment. "The mongoose I want under the house when snakes slither by." It pulled a laugh from WIll, the sound hollow and warped.</p><p> </p><p>"A <em>mongoose," </em>he repeated, curling the syllables as his voice raised in pitch and humor. "And for the record, it's s<em>ent</em> me there,” Will corrected, turning his back on Hannibal and moving towards the chaise, his jacket and rucksack neatly arranged by the doctor after he had hurriedly deposited them. “I have no intention of letting Jack turn me into a bloodhound.” He shirked on his coat, sliding his gaze to Hannibal’s face- not his eyes, settling firmly on his chin instead- as he added, “and I disagree about needing therapy.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t believe you have anything to glean from therapy?” Hannibal asked, watching as Will pulled the strap of his bag over his shoulder- readying to depart for the evening that had only just begun.</p><p> </p><p>Will scoffed, tilting his head in emphasis of his words. “There is nothing I can get from therapy that can’t also be achieved at home, alone, with a bottle of whiskey and my own pointed ruminations, <em>Doctor.</em>” He said the title with malice, elongating the vowels so that the word stretched and slowed over the clicked of his tongue from the roof of his mouth to the space behind his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal stepped forward as if moving closer to Will to add intimacy to their conversation but truly it was to hinder his exit, his body standing between the younger man and the door that would close behind him. “What is it about the process that concerns you, Will? Unpleasant experiences, or are you frightened about what will be uncovered once the veil you use to separate yourself from others is pushed aside?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to get you a bad metaphor jar. So far I think you owe me eight dollars,” he mumbled beneath his breath, though loud enough that the slight was heard in the quiet of the room. He added, in a steadier, louder voice, “I don’t particularly like feeling like a science experiment. And I <em>certainly </em>don’t like people presuming to understand me more than I understand myself.”</p><p> </p><p>His anger was palpable now, the sharpened tips of his canine revealed under the pull of his lip as he all but <em>snarled</em> at Hannibal. Yet, it did nothing to deter him, something like excitement thrumming in his veins at the promise of a game. The promise of peeling back the layers of the wonderful and intriguing man before him with precision, clean and surgical hands dismantling him until nothing could hide behind the ivory of his bones and the soft, pulsing tissues of his organs. “I've made no such assumptions,” he countered, purposefully not offering an apology for the perceived transgressions.</p><p> </p><p>“You called me a mongoose,” he began, his words measured. He canted his body, slipping past Hannibal and toward the door. “Honestly, my coming here was redundant to begin with. I only needed to be cleared to do fieldwork, which is not something I plan on getting back into. But Jack doesn't really take <em>no</em> for an answer so I told him I would get clearance just so he can feel good knowing he has me sitting pretty in his armory. So, no, I didn't come here for the greater purpose of my mental health but <em>thank you</em> for that rubber stamp.” He looked at Hannibal from over his shoulder, the door cutting through the silence with a muted groan as the hinges creaked. “It wasn’t much of a pleasure, Doctor Lecter.”</p><p> </p><p>He slipped through the door with little else, slamming it closed and leaving Hannibal to stand alone in the office, blinking at the afterimage of his presence.</p><p> </p><p>Will Graham had an awful habit of shutting doors in Hannibal’s face, it seemed.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A week had passed since Will’s aborted therapy appointment, and Hannibal was delighted to find himself strolling through the halls of the FBI headquarters in Quantico once more, the laminated visitor badge clipped at an angle to his lapel. The metal teeth would leave an indent in the fine fabric, an irksome prospect that was at least softened by the thought of seeing the crown of errant curls and blue eyes that never quite met his own.</p><p> </p><p>Will Graham occupied his thoughts in a manner that was unfamiliar to Hannibal. So rarely had he been overcome by intrigue and fascination that no matter what thoughts filtered through his mind, they always had a way of returning to a singular subject. Even if Will seemed adamant in keeping the man at a distance, turning words into weapons in the hopes that his biting crudeness would be enough to spurn Hannibal. Though, perhaps that was why he was such a peculiar focus in his thoughts. Or, he supposed if he were honest, partially why.</p><p> </p><p>If Will weaponized his rudeness, then it could be said Hannibal weaponized his charm- a gift of gab that charmed others with ease. He effused sincerity and warmth, words so carefully chosen to inspire trust. He was beguiling in every sense of the word, and even those he knew to be intimidated or covetous or even reproachful of him- a culmination of all three when applied to one Doctor Frederick Chilton- were unable to resist his charm. Smiling wide and lasciviously and preening beneath his attentions for praise that simply meant something more when coming from the good doctor than it would if it came from another tongue.</p><p> </p><p>As if Hannibal were a mouthpiece for something greater, something grander and his words were benedictions on the ears of those who swarmed to him like supplicants. Everyone wanted to be anointed by his attentions.</p><p> </p><p>Except for Will Graham.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps it was his narcissism at play- as he wasn’t so unawares to not see the trademark signs of such a personality disorder within his own countenance- but he was enthralled by the way that Will resisted the pull of his charm. As if Hannibal possessed a force of gravity within him that dragged others into his orbit except for one stubborn celestial being who defied science and expectation.</p><p> </p><p>He insisted to himself that it was a psychological interest that drove him. An empathy disorder was such a rare, unstudied thing and he yearned to dissect Will’s mind- psychoanalysis like a scalpel. How did it <em>work?</em> What did Will see when he looked to others that made eye contact such a burden?</p><p> </p><p>Did he deny each and every one of Hannibal’s extensions of companionship as a preemptive move? An effective if lonesome attempt to keep his head quieter and without clutter? Or did he <em>see</em> something Hannibal? Something that called to his intuition; a brilliant mind tracing and discerning dangerous patterns faster than he could distinguish them himself?</p><p> </p><p>The thoughts were <em>endless</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He considered himself to be, by all accounts, an optimist. Each morning was a promise of something new, a world to be explored and unfamiliar delights to discover. And his optimism led him to hope that surely <em>this</em> time would be more fruitful. That eventually Will- lonely and morose from the weight of his disordered brain- would surrender himself to Hannibal when presented with him enough times.</p><p> </p><p>He realized it was a theory not unlike the one behind the popular treatment of phobias known as systematic desensitization and tried not to let his pride bristle at the comparison.</p><p> </p><p>The hall outside of Will’s classroom was flooded by ambling students, dressed primly in the plain uniform of the academy. Heads were lowered, tipping together as they chatted in hushed whispers about the class that had just come to an end. Snippets of conversations that Hannibal only half-heard as he slipped between the sea of bodies and slid into the room.</p><p> </p><p>Will was standing behind the desk, head bowed and shoulders hunched as he shuffled through pages of an exam that a young lady with lank blonde hair was certain she had failed, and that a tall gentleman with dark eyes and a scowl insisted was too hard to be fair. Though Hannibal imagined that was intentional on Will’s part- he was training the future Jack Crawford’s of the world, after all. They would need to be tough.</p><p> </p><p>“I hope I’m not intruding on anything important,” he said, lips curling into a fond smile when Will’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice, a sneer almost immediately carving itself into his strong features.</p><p> </p><p>“Doctor Lecter,” he drawled, crooking a brow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p> </p><p>“I was in the neighborhood,” he answered, knowing the simple and coy response would only prompt Will to converse with him further.</p><p> </p><p>He gave a slow blink, his expression dubious. “Don’t you live in Baltimore? What, did you get lost looking for the nearest <em>haberdashery?</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t aware there were such establishments in either Maryland or Virginia. Have any you can recommend? My pocket square collection is woefully in need of an update, I’m afraid,” he mused, a soberness to his voice that made Will pause, eyes widening only marginally before narrowing into thin, irritated slits. Self-flagellating himself internally for his accidental slip into something one might consider banter.</p><p> </p><p>Or, heaven forbid, <em>joking with a friend.</em></p><p> </p><p>In a show of consideration that would undoubtedly go unappreciated, Hannibal returned the conversation from the easy transaction of witticisms to something more professional. Less personal. “Agent Crawford called me in to assist on a case. I was in the building and thought I would see how you were feeling now that some time has passed.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Will muttered, glancing back down as he resumed his shuffling of the test. He shifted the pages together, loosely holding the sides as he slapped the bottom edge of the stack against the desk several times to make the pile as neat as could be. The force was disproportional to the task at hand, and it with a wry flutter of amusement that Hannibal wondered if Will was envisioning the knot of the faux wood tabletop to be his face.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal straightened his spine, clasping his hands behind his back as he assumed the role of concerned psychiatrist- the one most likely to flay Will’s nerves. “Jack has expressed concern that you’re insistent about not returning to the field. He’s worried he may have broken you. I disagree, of course, though I admit to concerns of my own. I understand that, despite your history of field work, the previous week was the first time you’ve pulled a trigger,” he began, watching with well-restrained delight as Will inhaled sharply, eyes pinching closed so that creases appeared over his eyelid. “I’m afraid you’re distancing yourself from your actions rather than confronting them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Impossible. I’m clearly not great at distancing myself from things I find disagreeable,” he mumbled, tossing the tests into his rucksack without concern for how they were arranged and reaching a hand within the wide, canvas mouth of the bag. He rooted around for several seconds before pulling his hand out, fingers curled around a bottle of pain reliever. Pills jostled noisily in the container, making Will wince as he unscrewed the cap and at least the obvious distress proved that the pills were for the purpose of alleviating an ache and not a pointed criticism at Hannibal’s presence.</p><p> </p><p>A small consolation, but one he would take regardless.</p><p> </p><p>Will curled his hand, shaking four pills into his palm and Hannibal let his vision slant to his face, seeing the fine but noticeable sheen of sweat along his hairline, his skin a shade paler than it had been a week earlier. The halogen lights buzzing above them were certainly doing him no favors, but a soft inhale detected the barest traces of a fever. Spicy and musky.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you feeling alright, Will?” he asked, just as he slapped his fist to his mouth and tossed the pills onto his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“Never been better,” he answered, the words muffled as he balanced the tablets on his tongue before swallowing harshly, the knot of his throat bobbing with the action.</p><p> </p><p>There was a desk between them, a distance greater than Hannibal would like, yet he canted his body forward, hoping that he would be able to get enough of an aroma of his sickness to discern what it was.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?” Will asked flatly, taking a step back and furrowing his brow. “Are you trying to smell me?”</p><p> </p><p>He leaned back on his heels, offering only a shrug- he didn’t make it a habit to deal in shame. “Hard to help. The smell of your aftershave is curious is all- might I recommend you something finer? Something without a ship on the bottle?”</p><p> </p><p>Will scoffed, ducking his head as he unceremoniously tossed his bottle of store-brand pain reliever into his bag. “You don’t like it? Aw, beans,” he said, mouth flickering at his own quip.</p><p> </p><p>“As charming as your sardonic mien is, I can’t help but to notice you’ve once more used humor to deflect. I’m merely concerned about you, Will. That you might not be giving yourself the support you need when the inevitable crumble of your coping mechanism makes the reality too hard to ignore,” Hannibal insisted, frowning as the sharp blue eyes rolled unattractively at the question.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>I’m fine.</em> Though I’m beginning to suspect you don’t want me to be,” he accused, any traces of humor that might have lingered in his voice now gone. Displaced with anger. “Tell me, Doctor Lecter, why do you want to get me on the proverbial shrink’s couch so badly? What ulterior motives sit behind the facade of concern?”</p><p> </p><p>Rarely did Hannibal find himself at a loss for words, his innate loquaciousness making such a prospect almost impossible. Yet, Will Graham stunned him into silence, several long and stretching seconds of nothingness passing between them in which Hannibal could only blink, struck mute at the direct and- not entirely unfounded- accusation.</p><p> </p><p>It was an exhilarating thrill, the idea that already Will had seen enough of Hannibal to detect the insincerity that was so cleverly concealed within his person suit. Yet, with that thread came danger, the thought that Will might have seen <em>too much. </em></p><p> </p><p>He thought of Florence- of the <em>Il Mostro </em>tucked behind bars that had been an innocent man, bearing the weight of punishment for sins that were not his own. His last words were a declaration of such innocence before he was put to rest.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a facade,” he said after a moment, recovering in increments from the shock of Will’s words. “Perhaps you are just so unfamiliar with the concept of concern that you-”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m familiar with doctors trying to use me as a conduit for their research and medical journals,” he interjected, tone acidic even though Hannibal felt his muscles relax with the tension that had pulled them taut. <em>Oh</em>. <em>That was what he meant.</em></p><p> </p><p>“I have no intention to use you as a case study, Will,” he said. “Would it be too forward of me to invite you out to lunch? A simple meal with light conversation- I promise I won’t pry or ask anything that might be misconstrued.”</p><p> </p><p>Will glanced at him, cheeks hollowing as he chewed on the soft tissue of his mouth. “I’m not hungry,” was all he offered and it was, if nothing else, a small victory that Will had offered a socially acceptable reason to turn down an invite instead of lobbing another barbed insult regarding Hannibal’s company.</p><p> </p><p>“Very well. I’ll leave you be then,” he said, stepping back from the desk. Surprise shone in Will’s gaze- this time it was Hannibal who initiated the end of their conversation, and had done so without employing the use of a <em>door slamming in his face, thank you very much.</em> “Though, perhaps you would like to know that Abigail Hobb’s woke up this morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Warmth pooled in his limbs and his lips twisted into a smile when the information had the desired effect; Will stiffened at the words and his mouth slung open. He was no fool, after all. He had visited Abigail himself on occasion, and had been displeased to see Will’s name scrawled messily several spaces above his on the visitor log-in sheet. Missing him just shy of hours; and flipping through the week’s worth of pages had only soured his mood further- Will did not follow a set schedule in his visitation, coming and going at all hours as he pleased.</p><p> </p><p>He said nothing more as he turned his back to Will and departed, tilting his head in greeting to Beverly as she strode into the classroom. “Doctor Katz, a pleasure as always,” he said, letting his good mood carry over in the fluttering notes of his voice.</p><p> </p><p>A good mood that was slightly bruised when he heard the exchange behind him.</p><p> </p><p>“Ready for lunch?” Beverly asked, to which Will Graham- <em>the little deviant-</em> responded with a too-loud exclamation of <em>‘Yes, I’m starving.’</em></p><p> </p><p>~x~</p><p> </p><p>“Just the cheeseburger and fries. Lettuce and tomato on the side and <em>extra </em>extra pickles, please,” Will said to the waitress, smiling kindly and saying a quiet <em>thanks</em> as she took the proffered menu and turn to put the order in.</p><p> </p><p>“Extra extra pickles. You’re disgusting,” Beverly said with a grimace, face scrunching in repulsion as she twisted the paper from the straw set on the table, tacky in the way the cheap formica tables of all diners seemed to be. As if each proprietor of diners across America had gathered together one day and decided to ensure the experience of each meal was met with a healthy degree of wariness to the overall hygiene of such establishments.</p><p> </p><p>A global conspiracy maybe, though Will had never traveled outside the states to test the theory. The notion brought with it the thought of traveling across all of Europe, eating only at the most mediocre diners he stumbled upon as he drove on the left side of the road during the liminal hours of night. Documenting his experience with all the precision of someone performing a more important task. He covered his mouth with his hand, turning the resulting laugh into a cough knowing he would sound insane if questioned.</p><p> </p><p>“Pickles are the only thing worthwhile, don’t take them away from me,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“I wonder what sort of bar they got here. Ever try a pickelback shot?” she asked, lifting herself up from her seat and straining to glance at the bar of the diner. A limited selection of alcohol sitting beside the coffee pot and soda fountain. “It’s gross, you’d love it.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s one in the afternoon,” he reminded her. Or himself, maybe, forcing his gaze to turn away from the bottle of whiskey sitting high on the shelf, fitted with a spout to ensure no money was wasted by haphazardly pouring too much liquor. It was a tempting sight, the amber liquid encased in the thick, beveled glass- a bead of condensation slipping down the tapered neck. “I could use a drink, though.”</p><p> </p><p>Beverly hummed, a knowing smile stretching across her face. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the little doctor’s visit I walked in on, would it?” she asked, eyes sparkling.</p><p> </p><p>He only grunted in response, leaning forward in his seat to catch the straw of his drink between his lips. The soda was bright and effervescent, cloyingly sweet. “He’s like the mother I never had,” he said after a moment. Provided, of course, said mother was only fretting over their child in some Machiavellian mechanism- obscuring a hidden motive that had yet to be discerned.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe all mothers were like that. Will had never had one long enough to know.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s weird, but a nice enough guy,” Beverly said, head tipping side to side in a diplomatic motion. “A bit...what’s the word? Foppish?”</p><p> </p><p>Will arched a brow. “Pompous?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Foppish,”</em> Beverly articulated, though the correction lost its admonishing edge as it hitched over her soft laughter. “And he’s friends with Alana, right? She adores him, and you’re friends with her?”</p><p> </p><p>Will scoffed, nerves bristling at the mention of the <em>other</em> doctor. “So, what? By the law of the transitive property, we’re supposed to be best buddies or something?”</p><p> </p><p>His tone was surlier than he intended, cruelty making the consonants sharp and jagged and he sighed, trying to soften his edges. “Sorry, that came out meaner than I meant it,” he said, dragging his palm down his face.</p><p> </p><p>She considered him for a moment, dark and discerning eyes examining him with all the zeal of a sample pressed between glass, pinched together, and ready to be slid beneath the magnifying view of a microscope. He shifted with discomfort, averting his gaze as she finally said, “it’s fine.”</p><p> </p><p>He was often made crooked by the mention of Alana Bloom, bitterness threading his veins before he could tamper such an unattractive thing down. He enjoyed Alana’s company more than others- not necessarily a high bar, he knew, but one that was measurable. And he had been struck by how lovely she was from the moment they first met, the word <em>soft</em> coming to mind. Soft tousles of dark brown hair, soft gray eyes. Soft curves and soft, plush lips that were decidedly <em>kissable</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Even her skin was soft, his memory of her palm settling in his own bringing with it warmth and velvet.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, he was not so doe-eyed with his infatuation to become unaware. He knew she made a point to never be in a room alone with him- doing his best to ignore the prickle of hurt that she might do so out of <em>wariness</em>. Treating him the way one might treat a dog with a history of attacks hidden behind a loving disposition; kind and welcoming, though always sure to keep an eye on the sharpened teeth.</p><p> </p><p>The foulness of the mood made even more fetid as he recalled Lecter’s dismay over the scent of his aftershave. Not as if he was disheartened to know it bothered him (he was half inclined to bathe in the solution in a show of righteous vindication) but it was an aftershave that Alana purchased for him each Christmas. She joked that it was tradition, but the veil of tradition was not so opaque he couldn’t see it for what it was. A sanitized, generic gift purchased from a display of other sanitized and generic gift sets set in the center of a superstore. The sort of thing placed beneath a cardboard sign bearing the words <em>For Him</em> with assorted tools of masculinity made festive with a bow.</p><p> </p><p>An aftershave set that came with matching toiletries, wrapped in crinkling paper. Sometimes gifted alongside a new tackle kit. He was, pathetically, jealous of his dogs which were always given an assortment of gourmet treats and toys and, on occasion, a sweater he would wrangle one of them in for long enough to take a photo to send to her before it was inevitably tossed aside after the novelty wore off. Personal gifts, chosen with more care than his own- a toy that was great for Buster because it featured a pocket for treats he could slowly work out, a stuffed toy for Zoe that wouldn’t further aggravate her poor dental health.</p><p> </p><p>A conflicting thing, finding her consideration of the dogs both endearing and a slight against himself.</p><p> </p><p>He pushed the thoughts away, leaning back against the seat as the waitress returned, setting his plate in front of him. He reached across the table, grabbing the bottle of ketchup and popping the lid with a squelch. The hole was congealed in old ketchup, dark red and crusted, and it spurted messily on his plate with a squeeze. He dragged several fries through it, popping them into his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Anyway, Hannibal’s been helping us with a case. He's good, but he's no you,” Beverly said, retracing the conversation back to a point before it had pivoted, chewing a bit of an onion ring thoughtfully. She swallowed, leaning forward to give Will a sly smirk and a wink. “By the way, nice job ignoring all seven of Jack’s voicemails. I thought for sure he would beat you down after I overheard him pulling the guilt trip card.”</p><p> </p><p>Will huffed out a small laugh. “Ah yes...the guilt trip. Voicemail number six. The first were mostly yelling,” he said, raising a hand to hide his half-masticated food as he added, “the five stages of grief. Minus the acceptance, of course. And he circles back a lot to anger.” He reached for a napkin, wiping his fingers of the grease and salt before extending a hand out expectantly.</p><p> </p><p>Beverly grinned, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a file, passing it across the table. “Living mushroom garden. Insane stuff,” she said, taking a bite of her sandwich.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, can you really call it a living garden?” he muttered, perusing the file. “You know the deal. If Jack hears a word of this-”</p><p> </p><p>“Head on a stick. Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she interrupted, dismissively waving a hand as she tucked into her food once more. “I don’t understand why you don’t just...<em>help out</em> though. Like formally. That way you get all the credit instead of using my as your mouthpiece.” The words were muffled, spoken through fried food, and the bread of her sandwich.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe the credit is exactly what I don’t want.” He flipped the page of the file, eyes flicking quickly over the cramped eight-point font. Consuming and digesting the words as if he were voracious; as if nourishment could be found in the clinical and detached jargon. The description of death. <em>Unrestrained. Rich, nutrient-dense fertilizer blend. Dextrose in catheters. Intravenous tubing. </em>Knowledge of medicine and, to some degree, practical application. Access to medical supplies, though how might someone evade the ever-watchful eye of the inventory process? The work was sloppy in terms of the bodies unbothered by the cleanliness and the handling of the victim. <em>A means to an end.</em></p><p> </p><p>She hummed. “How Byronic hero of you.”</p><p> </p><p>He said nothing else, his eyes coming to an abrupt halt as he turned the page of printed reports to the glossy sheen of an eight-by-ten photograph. The colors sharp and saturated, crisp lines forming shadows and light. If not for the yellow evidence tags, he might not have known what he was looking at, the garden of mushrooms so encompassing. The soft, rounded heads curving upwards from the soil and the remains. He could see it now- the hand raised upward, held aloft by a stick and tie, a dirty tube rising up and disappearing from frame. The grave was surrounded by a bed of dead leaves, a mottled palette of golds and oranges and muted browns. A charming autumn scene made abhorrent with death and rot.</p><p> </p><p>He glanced once behind him to make certain no one sat too close, the diner busy enough and the surrounding chatter a rising din in the small space- tables and booths too open for his liking. When his nerves were settled that they were removed enough for at least a modicum of privacy, he turned back to the photo, raising the folder a scant amount higher to hide his face even if Beverly was always considerate, turning to her food with suspicious focus.</p><p> </p><p>He closed his eyes, allowing the scene to flourish within his mind; constructing the image before him as though he might be able to step through. Hear the crunch and shuffle of leaves beneath his steps, smell the scent that hung heavy around him; the sweet decay of death. Rotting leaves and damp graveyard dirt, air that clung to the promise of rain. It was a cold morning, brisk with a wind that would howl through the trees, brush the remaining leaves held loosely to branches, and pinch his cheeks until they were pink and numb. His breath a palpable thing, a puff of smoke drifting from his parted lips.</p><p> </p><p>He would glance down, see the carefully arranged graves. Mathematical and pragmatic in their creation; rudimentary in the offerings bestowed upon the occupants. The graves were not for them, though. Simply the earth they would rot and disappear into.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I do not bind his arms or legs as I bury him in a shallow grave. He’s alive. But he will never be conscious again. He won’t know that he’s dying. I don’t need him to. This is my design. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There was...a beauty to the scene stretching before him. A solemn beauty; like the tales of a tragedy told in such exquisite prose. The final act of a bitter opera that coalesced in somber, haunting melodies. Loneliness, and yet a peace within the loneliness. Nature collapsing into itself and leaving only the barest remains of itself; a cycle of birth and death and rebirth.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Connectedness.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He set the file down, blinking open his eyes and giving a shaking exhale as he returned to the diner. It was always a startling thing, emerging to reality from the creations of his mind. Like dunking his head underwater, drowning in the oppressive chill. He rose a hand, rubbing at his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Beverly flicked her gaze to him, arching a brow in question.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He wasn’t right.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Whoever this UNSUB was...they weren’t right. Not for him.</p><p> </p><p>He slid the file toward her, sighing heavily as he did. “Connectedness. He’s trying to understand how people connect to each other because he can’t. He’s...lonely. Sad. Desperate.” He paused a moment, drumming his fingers rhythmically against the softcover of the file where the sound was muted. “They all died of kidney failure. Diabetic ketoacidosis. They’re diabetics, and he’s messing with their medication. Cross-reference all the victims with pharmacies in the area.”</p><p> </p><p>She scoffed, shaking her head slowly. Awed. Her mouth opened as if to say something, but she snapped it closed instead. Thinking better of whatever had been readied on her tongue.</p><p> </p><p>More praises, perhaps. A wistful utterance to how his talents were wasted in the darkened classroom and the beam of the projector light. A plea that he would be so fulfilled if he returned to the work he was clearly meant for- as if fashioned for the task of hunting killers by a vengeful god, angry at those who recklessly dismantled his acts of creation.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t understand he was fulfilled.</p><p> </p><p>Their arrangement worked out well for him.</p><p> </p><p>Case files passed between them in secret, killers brought to light and justice at Will’s advice. His success rate wasn’t perfect- some files were simply too <em>perplexing</em> he would say, voice tinged with sorrow as he passed them back, keeping his true thoughts hidden behind averted gazes and frown-tipped lips.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t need to hunt killers with Jack to find fulfillment.</p><p> </p><p>He could hunt them just fine from this booth, hands thick with salt and grease, and the promise of a milkshake sitting at the end of a too-heavy meal.</p><p> </p><p>And the ones that were <em>too perplexing?</em></p><p> </p><p>He hunted them too; their reign of terror coming to an abrupt, if not welcomed, end that would baffle the ultimate grateful team of investigators before being sent over to cold case.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Life is hard enough when your crush doesn’t know you exist. But when your crush actively wishes you didn’t? R-I-P to Hannibal’s dignity, I guess.</p><p>Also, where's that Spiderman meme? The one with two Spider...men? pointing at each other? That but they both have a knife and one is Will and the other is Hannibal.</p><p>Next up: Will is convinced Hannibal's stalking him. Hannibal assures him it's just a coincidence. </p><p>It is not very assuring.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I swear this isn't endorsed by McDonald's (boy is that a cursed thing to start a fic off with)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will was beginning to suspect Hannibal Lecter- renowned former surgeon and accomplished psychiatrist, recommended highly by someone who Will previously respected but was now beginning to suspect was dangerously unstable- was stalking him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It sounded extreme even to one so paranoid as him. A series of connecting coincidences that at first were marginally unremarkable and, if he were being <em>fair</em>, warranted only to further dissolve into something that felt contrived. Forced opportunities, handcrafted run-ins that were making him wary of the haunts he now knew to be recognizable.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The first instance had been after his lunch with Beverly, canceling his final class of the day to make the drive to the hospital to visit Abigail. She was awake- as promised- blue eyes clear and wide as she glanced at him from the doorway, shifting his weight awkwardly side to side.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>You killed my dad,”</em> she said, though the tone was just shy of accusatory. More matter-of-fact and to the point, as if making that statement to clear the air between them. An acknowledgment of something that would otherwise sit bloated and insisted as an uninvited third guest in the room.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The uninvited third guest came later, donning an egregious suit as if performing a study on just how many patterns one might need to mix together before others fell ill at the sight of them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Will, what a pleasant surprise,” Hannibal remarked, setting down a cloth tote on the tray beside Abigail’s bed. “I’ve brought dinner, and luckily for you, I’m a firm believer in bringing extras, so you-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Whatever he had been ready to say was cut short, Will waving a quick goodbye to Abigail and promising to visit later- though careful not to say when later might be- before slipping into the hall.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(The second visit to Abigail was, thankfully, passed without a single paisley tie in sight.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The second run-in had been within the halls of Quantico, Hannibal quick to remark that the reason for such was simply because Jack had called him in for a case, and Will quick to remark that perhaps his reckless fashion choices had finally blinded him- as the BSU offices were on the opposite side of the building.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The third had been- and he was bereft to admit it- not entirely Hannibal’s fault. The case Hannibal had been called in on was in fact a continuation of the Hobbs case, to which Will refused to help with on the grounds that he had agreed to catch the killer- not find the remains or catch the copycat that had cropped up in its path. Of which there had been another kill, a gift bestowed upon Jack, Alana, Hannibal, and Abigail upon their return to Minnesota.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will had been unwittingly pulled into the autopsy room by a stubborn Jack, a delighted Hannibal, and an apologetic Beverly, urging him to help work the copycat case.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He, of course, refused, a firm <em>“I don’t hunt killers, Jack. I teach about them.”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The fourth instance had been in the library of the BSU facilities and though he couldn’t fault Hannibal for being there entirely, it still felt like an offense on his persons. He gritted his teeth through the round of questioning and denied an invite to chat once more. After all, the last thing he needed was a psychiatrist with an alarmingly penetrative gaze trying to pull the thread of his mind for closer inspection.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There were- not quite literally, but closer to literally than figuratively- simply too many skeletons in his closet to allow such careful scrutinizing. There were already rumors shifting through the halls of the Bureau, whispers made behind cupped hands that he wasn’t <em>stable</em>. That there must be a reason why he was so <em>good</em> at what he did.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A few unflattering articles written by a blogger who seemed determined to test the tenuous moral code he abided by only further hammered a nail in his coffin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or the proverbial electric chair, in this instance.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No, it was better- <em>safer</em>- to be seen as surly and rude and weird, letting a facade of minor disorders obscure and shield the more insidious ones that shifted within the confines of his skull.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After all, what good was therapy when he already knew what he was? Had made peace with the monster living in the shadows of his mind? There was no self-actualization needed, no assurance to guide him into some sort of transubstantiation.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He knew who he was without a shrink asking him <em>how does it make you feel</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>‘<em>It makes me feel like hunting down and butchering someone, next question,’</em> he thought with a wry grin as he left Hannibal behind in the forensics section of the library, authors F-J. It was a fleeting thought, a humorous notion- envisioning himself stretched out on a tufted leather sofa, saying those exact words to the startled doctor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The fifth instance- and, invariably, the one that lead to his belief their run-ins were less coincidental than previously implied- was at a <em>McDonald’s</em> of all places.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will stood to the side of the counter, waiting for his breakfast sandwich and coffee to be completed as he ripped open the white privacy bag from the pharmacy next door. Prescription-strength medicine for the migraines that had persisted- growing in ire and pain until the ache was all-encompassing and distracting. He had made the visit to a clinic when the realization dawned on him that he used an entire bottle of Aspirin in a span of four days, and his already heavy indulgence in whiskey left little wiggle room for the sort of abuse his liver could tolerate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He pinched down the childproof seal of the cap, twisting it open and shaking three of the pills into his palm when he heard-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I can’t imagine that’s a safe amount.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His head jerked up, blinking in surprise at the sight of the man standing behind the queue. It was a startling sight, and for a brief- hysterical moment- Will wondered if hallucinations might be a symptom of migraine and what sort of deranged sense of humor did his mind have that <em>this </em>was the image it chose to conjure.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannibal, dressed in a royal blue suit with gray pinstripes and a <em>fucking</em> floral waistcoat, standing before him on the linoleum pink floors of a <em>McDonald’s.</em> There was a <em>fucking</em> poster on the wall behind him with some monstrous-looking sandwich with commercial-pressed patties and greasy fries. If he wasn’t glancing at it with his own two eyes, he might have thought it was a photoshopped image- and a bad one at that. The sort of thing Beverly made when she was bored during work and wanted to make Will laugh.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will didn’t break eye contact as he tossed all three pills back at once, grimacing as the film surrounding the pills dissolved and left an acrid taste on his tongue.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A bag of food and coffee was set down beside him, and Will barely remembered to say thank you, practically shouting the words at the back of a retreating employee before grabbing his food and curling his hands around the too-hot paper cup. “Are you following me?” he asked, turning his focus back to the doctor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannibal blinked, head tilting curiously to the side. “Following you? Of course not.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re in <em>McDonald’s</em>,” he said as if the point needed iterating. He felt it did, in fact. Reiterating, even. “<em>McDonald’s. </em>You showed up at my motel room with homemade breakfast I’m assuming you made on a hotplate you travel with because you said you’re careful about what you eat and now you’re here.” He paused, letting a second pass between them before adding, <em>“in McDonald’s.”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The ends of his lips quirked up into a small, flickering smile. “Jack called me last minute about a case and I’m afraid I didn’t have time to start up my French press and I can forgo food but coffee-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>McDonald’s!” </em>Will hissed, gesturing in the air with an index finger, the others curled over the cinched bag of food in his hand. As if to prove his point, the bottom of the bag was dark with grease as it waved in the air only inches between them. “You just said the words <em>French press</em> and now you’re here at McDonald’s?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, is that where we are? This whole time I thought it was <em>Starbucks,”</em> he mused, glancing around at the generic décor as if only just discovering where he was.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>That</em> would make more sense to me, at least. But Mc-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>McDonald’s</em>,” Hannibal supplied for him, humor tracing the words.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will scowled, pursing his lips together. “I don’t buy it. You saw me come in here, and you followed me. I bet you’re not even going to drink that coffee. You’ll take three sips to prove a point and then toss it away once I’m gone.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Will-” Hannibal began, only to be cut off by the short-tempered man.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No! I’m going to go to work, and I better not see you the entire day,” he said, pushing the words from behind his teeth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannibal seemed undeterred, smiling serenely as he nodded. “I promise,” he said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good,” Will asserted, giving one final glance over his shoulder as he pushed his way through the door.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~x~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A promise, it seemed, Hannibal would not be keeping.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not of his own design, though, and the thought brought with a surge of warmth and a trickle of delight that he was not the one to blame as he was dragged across the building at Quantico. He had stepped not even two feet into Jack Crawford’s office before the man caught sight of him, rising from his desk with a muttered greeting. Tacking on an explanation as he strode across the room and lead Hannibal back into the corridor, <em>‘we’ll be having this meeting elsewhere. If Will Graham refuses to come to me, then we’ll be coming to him.’</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannibal couldn’t agree more with the sentiment.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The classrooms were held in a different wing of the building, as far removed from the center of the BSU as one could manage. A long walk, and Hannibal took the opportunity to ask, “is Will aware you plan on ambushing him?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It wouldn’t be an ambush if he was,” Jack muttered, pressing the key to Will’s floor on the elevator, thick, metal doors closing with a melodic beep.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannibal nodded. “Has he shown any indication in changing his mind about fieldwork? Or is this venture a leap of faith?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jack chuckled, extending a finger and emphasizing his words with it as he said, “Technically, it’s not fieldwork.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah. A leap of faith and a loophole.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jack grunted, glancing at him sidelong as the doors opened. “It’s a tentative proposal to a case made by someone I have little faith in. I <em>do</em> have faith in Will, though, to know what he’s looking at and just want him for a consultation. Ten minutes top,” he reasoned, tossing a look once over his shoulder to make sure Hannibal followed him as they continued to move deeper into the building.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Tentative case?</em> He licked his lips in thought, curiosity unfurling like a rose within his chest. How might a case be tentative? It should be a certainty, after all. Bodies- especially ones that have been killed in an unnatural means or mutilated- didn’t exactly crop up without a cause. How might a trail of corpses, a path paved in blood and bone and flesh, lead to only a <em>tentative case?</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>His thoughts wandered, pulling apart the thread of the words and trying to discern them as they approached the classroom Hannibal had, technically, been banned from. Jack rose a fist, rapping against the open door even as he stepped inside- a warning given too late for action.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will glanced up from where he sat at his desk, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannibal gave a wide grin, raising a hand in a flourishing wave. “Hello!” he called, an unrealized chuckle vibrating in his chest as Will’s eyes narrowed in a menacing glare. They flicked back and forth between the two men now coming to a stop before him, as if trying to decide which one posed the greater infraction to his peace before, surprisingly, settling on Jack.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No,” he said tersely, a tone that brokered no argument.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Unfortunately for Will, arguing was Jack Crawford’s specialty.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Listen, Will-” he began, tone measured and diplomatic as he rested a palm on the desk between them, leaning forward as if creating intimacy in the conversation might give him better sway.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, <em>you</em> listen, Jack,” Will returned, the words pulled from behind teeth. “I am employed by the Bureau’s academy department, salaried as a teacher. My boss is Linda Greene. Not you, no matter how much you like to think you are. I don’t have to <em>listen</em> to you, and I certainly don’t have to let you harass me until I agree to work for you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannibal considered himself a reasonable, pragmatic man. Some might think him stoic, though he disagreed. He was not entirely unflappable or removed from his emotions- he felt them wholly and without shame. And he certainly- despite conflicting belief- was not so naive as to engage in the silly notion that fear was a useless emotion and a hindrance. Fear was a brilliant creation in the human psyche, a life-saving facet of the mind that alerted one to dangerous situations, allowed the mind to detect and link together patterns to step out of harm’s way.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was for this reason that he took a considerable step back, watching as the small, congenial smile Jack had affixed (as if a smile was what had been missing with his previous interactions with Will and would surely be the remedy in this case) slipped from his face, lips parting in an expression of astonishment. Astonishment that quickly gave way to anger.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Excuse me?”</em> he spat, the syllables slowed down and elongated.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will leaned back in his chair, the slightest hint of bashfulness suddenly seeping into his demeanor- a decidedly humble look on him. His mouth opened to speak, but before Hannibal could learn if the words readied on his tongue were an apology or an attempt to double down on his stance, a knock cut through the tension building like the charge to a lightning strike.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>All three men twisted to face the door. Though the woman who knocked had been just as considerate as Jack, not waiting to be allowed entrance before striding between the stadium-style seating, tossing her bright red curls over her shoulder and lips twisting into a smug grin. “Agent Crawford. Thank you for arranging this meeting,” she said, coming to a stop so she stood between Jack and Hannibal. She turned to the doctor, extending a gloved hand out to him. “Freddie Lounds, a reporter for <em>TattleCrimes.”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannibal accepted the hand, fingers curling around her much smaller palm and giving it three firm shakes, lips tipping in a small smile. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, glancing at Will at the sound of a derisive snort.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Really, Jack? Not only do you ambush me, but you invite a tabloid journalist to report on it?” he sneered, the earlier traces of humility vanished from his face in light of the new visitor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Freddie gave a pointed hum, blinking coquettishly. “The conduit I use might not be the most respected but I assure you, I do my articles and my readers' justice by doing my due diligence,” she began, raising her chin as a hand gripped around the briefcase hanging from a leather strap slung over her shoulder. “In fact, my due diligence has lead me to find a serial killer that has so far gone unnoticed by the FBI.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Tentative case.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will gave her a doubtful- if amused- glance, arms folding over his chest. “Alright. I’ll bite.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jack sighed, straightening his spine now that Will agreed to hear the proposal, his intrigue stronger than the animal-like ferocity to be kept alone. “Miss Lounds was adamant about being seen with her findings, and I only wanted you to look over what she has to see if we have a case on our hands. Not asking you to work. Just want your professional thoughts,” he said, a lie hidden beneath the strained tones that Hannibal suspected were meant to calm yet were anything but calming when spoken with such restrained anger. He turned then to Freddie, adding, “Will Graham is a consultant and one of our most respected profilers.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, I know <em>all</em> about Will Graham,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Sure did a number on Garret Jacob Hobbs, didn’t you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ten, in fact,” Will quipped, inspiring Jack reaching a hand out as if to quiet Will from saying anything further. A father who was unable to control a petulant child.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Miss Lounds, if you would,” he urged, impatience spiking the request.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She reached for the briefcase, pulling from it a stuffed folder, bulging with the neatly organized pages held within. Assorted colors of sticky notes protruded outward, baring small and clean handwriting of her own thoughts and considerations. She handed it to Jack, scowling as he skimmed through it before handing it off to Will. The younger man set the folder down before him, opening it up and trailing a finger down the page to guide his reading as his eyes flicked over the typeface.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Over about the past year, I’ve noticed a pattern. Serial killers who elude and perplex the FBI coming to an abrupt halt,” she began, clearing her throat. “Eleven, to be exact. From this year alone. Even more that match up if we go back further. Just from this and the surrounding states but I’ve found a few cases spread out across the country that have similar MO and signature.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will scoffed, glancing up from the documents as he rose a brow. “And what is the MO, Miss Lounds?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She smiled, the gesture unkind and sharp- like the blade of a knife. “He kills them the way they kill. My theory is that the final victim of each of those serial killers who have suddenly gone quiet is the serial killer themselves.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A vigilante killer?” Hannibal suggested.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Exactly,” she said, eyes sparkling.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And what makes you so certain that these final victims are the killers and not just more victims of the same killer?” Will asked, the tone lilted in condescension- insincere intrigue coloring the vowels. “From what it looks like here- from the limited outreach of your research and not being able to get past certain walls- there’s nothing to really distinguish them from the victims that came before. No sudden change in victimology or method, as you yourself pointed out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She blinked, undeterred by his doubt. “Serial killers don’t just stop, Mister Graham. It’s a compulsion. Someone else stopped them.” Her smiled lifted, saccharine sweet, and Will mirrored it, lips pulled into a wide grin as he propped an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. He batted his eyelashes in an obvious mimicry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m well aware of how serial killers operate, Miss Lounds. Are <em>you</em> aware that most serial killers can be categorized within the bounds of personality disorders? Disorders which come with an assorted list of symptoms. Problems with the law, problems with addictions, instability. Serial killers are just as likely- more than likely- to get arrested for other crimes related to lesser offenses than for their serial ones, resulting in a sudden disappearance. Health issues resulting from their addictions, life changes that may require an end to a compulsion that isn’t always as compulsive as one might believe. Or maybe they just died an unspectacular, unnewsworthy death. Not accounting for devolutions and evolutions that might change methodology or victimology. And there is the fact that many serial killers hunt their victims in place of a surrogate and will often stop once they get to the original object of their urges,” he prattled, his tone acerbic as he returned to his perusal of the documents. His attention waned as he flipped through the pages with greater speed. “Quite honestly, Miss Lounds, while the verdict is still out on the quality of your journalistic talents, the fact is you are not a profiler, and considering yourself as such is an insult to what I and Jack do every day.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He slapped the folder closed, passing it along to Hannibal without meeting his eyes. Hannibal accepted the offered documents, flipping it open and quietly realigning the pages that had been messily shuffled in Will’s enthusiastic reading.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So you don’t think we have a case?” Jack asked, watching as Will sipped his coffee. From <em>McDonald's</em>, Hannibal thought with an inappropriate twitch of his mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Freddie took advantage of Will’s pause in the conversation, adding quickly, “I think you do. I haven’t completed my research, but so far I’ve found similar cases in over twenty-one states. All active serial killers that suddenly stop out of nowhere. And he’s smart, uses the methodology of the killers he’s hunting to disguise his crimes but I’m smart too.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will set his coffee down, wiping the sleeve of his sweater against his mouth. “Occam’s razor, Jack. What’s more likely: serial killers who stopped killing because of the countless reasons we know of, or even just moved or changed their way of killing? Or that some righteous vigilante is traveling the country to pick them off one by one?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jack nodded his head as he curled a hand over his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. “I think I may have to agree with Will here, Miss Lounds.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She huffed out a soft exhalation, eyes wide and doleful. “I think you’re making a mistake, for the record. And there <em>will</em> be a record. I was coming here first as a courtesy, but the people of this community deserve to know that there’s a serial killer out there the FBI is choosing to ignore- one who, despite only operating for the past two years as far as I can tell, has a significantly greater kill count than the Chesapeake Ripper. Might even be better at getting away with it if you all refuse to see him,” she said, causing Hannibal to stop in his flipping of the paper, eyes blinking at the font below him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He glanced up, tilting his head to the side. “That would certainly be a claim. The Chesapeake Ripper has for so long been the boogeyman. Do you truly think it’s wise to create another one all for the sake of driving revenue?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her expression was haughty, self-satisfied not entirely unlike a fat cat who just sunk its teeth into the flesh of a mouse. “No creating necessary. The boogeyman just got another competitor, I think. I’m calling him the Replicator and-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The <em>Replicator</em>?” Will interrupted, brows raising high and forming creases on the smooth skin of his forehead as he lowered the cup that had been perched on his lips. He frowned, blinking twice before adding, “are you married to that or…?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She scoffed, lips pinched in a mirthless smile. “I think my first headline will be <em>Takes One to Know One: Replicator Doing the Work of the Lazy FBI.</em> What do you think?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will shrugged, rolling his shoulders. “A bit wordy, to be honest. I can recommend some edi-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jack stepped in front of Freddie, placing a firm hand on her shoulder and guiding her to take several steps back, effectively blockading her from Will. Or, the more likely reason being to block Will from her. “I assure you, Miss Lounds, we’re not dismissing your claims. I will oversee it myself, and I’ll even have an official statement prepared that we’re investigating a possible link to these crimes, alright? I promise we’ll look into it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her expression was dubious, a narrowed gaze leveled at a fixed point behind Jack’s shoulder where she knew Will to be sitting at his desk- his own face mirroring the same doubt. “I’m certain you will,” she said, spinning on her heel and striding back toward the door, the hem of her dress fluttering with each step.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jack waited until she was gone, the hallway outside of the classroom still before turning around to point a finger at Will. “<em>You.</em> I may not be your supervisor but I will make certain to email Linda Greene about that little display of yours,” he threatened, scoffing softly and rolling his eyes as he added, “you may not be an official agent, but you <em>are</em> a representative of the Bureau and Lounds is technically a member of the press- however low on the totem poll her brand of journalism may be.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I stand by what I said, Jack. Don’t ask for my opinion if you don’t like it,” Will drawled in return, reaching for the canvas bag hanging across the back of his chair and slinging it over his shoulders. He reached for his coffee, taking a noisy sip of it as he stepped around the desk, preparing to leave. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to request a new classroom. Preferably one with a mote.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m an excellent swimmer, Will,” Hannibal quipped, lips quirking into a grin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was startled by the sound of a laugh, bubbling quickly before Will could clamp it down. Though, Will seemed just as surprised by the noise, eyes widening before narrowing into slits, lips pinching tightly closed to keep anything that might be mistaken as joy buried in his throat. He offered Hannibal a withering glare- as if he were to blame for the small fit of humor, before departing from the classroom.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I should have known better than to put those two in a room together,” Jack muttered, and Hannibal remained quiet- his silence an agreement in the assessment. “What about you, Doctor Lecter? Do you see anything of interest?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“While I don’t pretend to have the recognition of pattern that someone such as yourself or Will Graham might have, I’d like to at least take my time studying her research, if you don’t mind? Perhaps I can get a copy?” he asked, raising the folder up to emphasize the request.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course. I’m going to have someone enter all the information in our systems, maybe request the autopsy reports of some of the final victims and compare them to previous ones. The easiest way to determine if it’s someone other than the killer is to search for any deviancy,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face. He sighed, a blustery, weary sound as he added in a derisive mumble, “All this work for what’s probably going to be a goose chase just to appease a blogger.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Miss Lounds isn’t the only one who bears the burden of due diligence,” Hannibal remarked, hesitantly handing the file to Jack and sliding his hands into his pockets, following along beside him as they returned to the BSU offices.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Perhaps both Will and Jack were right in their initial assumption. Years spent studying and dedicating their lives to the capture and profiling of serial killers had honed a sixth sense, an intuition in regard to the depravity of such monsters.</p>
<p><br/>But classrooms and autopsy room were a stark contrast from the reality, from the intimate knowledge of the workings of a serial killer’s brain when considered by someone of like kind. A kinship, an otherness that bound them together. Created a language that could not be translated for those who weren’t born with the innate understanding.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And, moreover, he was familiar with Lounds’s work. An abrasive and flowery voice that occluded a strikingly clear insight. A talent she possessed that was charming when used to write blog posts- a threat when imposed on law enforcement. She would not waste her time chasing a story that didn’t exist, and the muscles in Hannibal’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding against the crowns in his mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He enjoyed the exploits of other killers, for the most part. Drawing entertainment from their assorted work, intrigue blossoming in his brain at the thought of tilling such minds. Dissecting and pulling them apart, reducing them down to their various neuroses and psychoses. There was also an overwhelming amount of boredom, a sort of disappointment at the beauty that had been tarnished, a potential gone to waste. So few killers shared his appreciation for the quiet surrender of death, for the inspiration and artistry it was and his pride stung at the thought of being equated to any one of them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Especially one so lazy as to borrow the inspiration of another- a plagiarist masquerading as an artist.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He didn’t like the competition, and he would quietly dispose of whoever thought to challenge him- preferably without the assistance of BSU. There were simply some who did not deserve the recognition, the notoriety, and the iron bars of a prison cell.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He would honor him in a different way. A <em>proper</em> way- let him bask and revel in the work of a true artist in his final moments. Hannibal would grace him, allow him the honor of being made into a masterpiece of bones and flesh and blood. The honor of becoming one of the Chesapeake Ripper’s kills.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Replicator would be a passing fancy, a mere whim that would linger only in a few tactless articles on a gossip site. A legacy befitting of such a fraud.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So I was ugh...researching, we’ll say, romcom tropes and thought it would be fun to have a little poll on which trope should be turned into a pivotal scene. So, which classic RomCom scene do you want to see most in this nightmare of a fic??!</p>
<p>A.) Caught in the rain. Maybe even kiss? Hahaha jk...unless??</p>
<p>B.) Converse with the Unconscious: someone confesses to feelings/ a secret while the other is unconscious/ sleeping.</p>
<p>C.) Fake-out Make-out: obviously kissing is the best way to go unnoticed when trying not to get caught. I didn’t do it because I have feelings for you.</p>
<p>D.) Hands-On Teaching: Gotta get real close to you to demonstrate how to do this thing. No other way, sorry.</p>
<p>E.) Ferris Wheel Moment: Could potentially be more toxic than the one from The Notebook which is a hard bar to pass but these two make it possible.</p>
<p>F.) Slap-Slap-Kiss: When a heated argument turns into a heated...something else</p>
<p>If I’m going to Hannigram RomCom Hell, I’m dragging you all with me. I posted this on tumblr, and so far Slap-Slap-Kiss is in the lead, with one compelling vote for “all of them”. Trying to do them all might honestly kill me. Or turn me into a god, I have yet to decide. <br/>VOTE NOW!</p>
<p>NEXT UP: Will is secretly flattered to be compared to the Chesapeake Ripper, I mean, what an honor. Too bad Hannibal ruins his good mood by tricking him into coming over for dinner- that guy’s a loser.</p>
<p>(YES. The overarching premise of this fic is based entirely on a hilarious misunderstanding and dual identities- as all mediocre romcom plots are, and no I don't take criticisism.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I just realized this is basically a Pepe Le Pew/ Penelope Pussycat AU and if anyone needs me I'll be drawing up my will</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To say Hannibal was disappointed with the way the evening began was an understatement. Of course, his standard was set low when he awoke to a call at midnight about a crime scene- possibly linked to the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack had said, righteous vindication making the words sharp. A humorous notion, as he didn’t experience the sort of black spots in his memory that might erase the entirety of a kill and building of a display. The temptation of a confession had never seemed better than it did in the twilight hours, body thrumming with the ache of having been pulled from a deep sleep after only so little time spent in it.</p><p> </p><p>But there was a role to play, and he begrudgingly rose from the bed, trying to lift his mood up with the prospect of whatever murder he would be lead to. Even if his pride ebbed, bitterness prickling at his senses, at having another killer try to claim his identity.</p><p> </p><p>His pride took a swan dive upon arriving at the scene, and there was a flicker of concern that might have imitated something like self-doubt before coming upon the more likely conclusion that Jack was simply bad at his job. He would have to be to mistake such an abysmal scene for something within the same standing as one of his kills, and though the veil of obsession may have colored his gaze so that each new crime scene bore the same shades of a Ripper kill- this was just offensive.</p><p> </p><p>The large motel bathroom an inelegant stage, the slumped form pressed against the wall of the tub- messy and clumsy sutures. It was a mockery to hold such a kill against his own- there was no beauty, no marionettes strung up; statues made of flesh and bone. It was lazy and spoke of efficiency. A job to be done, not something to be lovingly crafted.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not so certain I can agree that this is the Ripper,” Hannibal declared, voice solemn as if dismayed to bring such disappointing news to Jack. The man was desperate for the scent of the elusive killer, a trail he could send his bloodhounds down and pray he would find him before the pattern of three kills came to an end.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, he’s got twenty-two possible signature components of the Ripper. I think it’s him,” Brian Zeller argued, flicking out a finger as he counted off each one, boredom and exhaustion dragging down on his voice. “Knife wounds are cuts, not stabs. Anatomical knowledge, dissecting skills. Mutilation, organ removal. The victim’s in clothes, on display. Can I say etcetera or should I go on?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know who you should call?” Beverly asked, one foot set in the tub and the other braced on the floor, standing over the corpse as she lowered the camera in her grasp. “Will Graham.”</p><p> </p><p>Jack scoffed, arching his brows. “Why? Have I not experienced the thrill of being sent to voicemail enough for your liking?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you haven’t,” she teased, smirking playfully as she added, “and the one thing you and Will have in common is a bit of an obsession with our resident Ripper.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal straightened from where he stood by the door, interest piquing at the words. “Is that so? I wasn’t aware Will had a white whale. He made it very clear he didn’t care for the hunting aspect of profiling, only the studying,” he said, the rush of delight almost dizzying at the information so unknowingly gift wrapped to him by Doctor Katz.</p><p> </p><p>His approach with Will hadn’t been exactly what he might call subtle- subtlety an impossibility with the foul-tempered teacher, whose personal walls were built more like fortresses. A ploy to keep everyone from getting too close to such a delectable prize.</p><p> </p><p>Everyone it seemed, except the Chesapeake Ripper- who he welcomed with open arms.</p><p> </p><p>The irony, of course, was not lost on Hannibal.</p><p> </p><p>“Even if he is interested, I think he blocked me after I got him written up,” Jack replied, indignation writ on his face.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll call him,” Beverly said, stepping from the tub and handing the camera to Price. Her phone was pulled from her pocket, already pressed against her ear as she left the bathroom. It was only a matter of seconds before she began speaking- presumably to Will- and Jack scoffed in disdain.</p><p> </p><p>An emotion Hannibal mirrored, mouth pulled into an imperceptible frown as he glanced at Beverly’s turned back. Everyone except the Chesapeake Ripper and Beverly Katz, he amended, something he refused to give a name to stirring in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Envy was an unflattering shade on anyone, as it were.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, whatever sour mood he began the evening in ended an hour later when the door to the motel room opened, Will stepping inside with calculating eyes that bounced around the yellow evidence tags- the drops of blood that laced a trail into the bathroom. It was nearly three in the morning now, and his riot of curls looked adequately bedraggled- as if too eager to make his way to the scene to bother with a comb and Hannibal almost felt a pang of guilt that it would all be naught.</p><p> </p><p>Surely, Will would see the things that Hannibal could not voice. That it was all wrong- the kill and the disposal- he refused to even call it a display- and the lurched over victim now pale and stiff in the tub.</p><p> </p><p>Saliva pooled on his tongue, anticipation winding like a coil within his gut. What sort of things would Will have to say about him? What profile of the Ripper might he construct? A profile made with delicate care because he was <em>obsessed</em> with the Ripper. Obsessed with understanding the mind of a monster that for so long had been labeled ‘defying definition.’ An oddity- an exception to every rule and creating several of his own.</p><p> </p><p>Was his obsession so deep he might even lower his guards enough, entertain a conversation that orbited around something they could share a deep focus toward?</p><p> </p><p>“We kept it as fresh for you as we could, considering we didn’t call you in until a bit into the initial investigation,” Jack said, the unspoken words clear. <em>It would have been fresher if you weren’t so stubborn.</em></p><p> </p><p>Will arched a brow. “Fresh? Fresh as a daisy?” he joked, though the quip was mellowed- something more than exhaustion from having been pulled from sleep dragging his energy down. Dark bags were swollen beneath his eyes, and as he strode across the room Hannibal could smell the distinct peppery aroma of a fever.</p><p> </p><p>He thought of the pharmacy bag clutched in his hands, ripped open with almost animal-like desperation; pills clattering together in the orange-tinted bottle. The painful wince as Will shook Aspirin into his palm.</p><p><br/>
Will Graham seemed to be very sick.</p><p> </p><p>The information was stowed away, tucked safely into the recesses of his mind. It could be useful, depending on the nature of the illness. A way to get close to Will, to endear him to him by the careful manipulation of one made pliant by sickness. There was a natural comfort one sought out when they were ill, even one so strategically lonely as Will and Hannibal could secure himself a coveted spot with the right plucking of the right strings. A skilled artist strumming a symphony from their instrument.</p><p> </p><p>Considerations for another day, however, as he drew away from his rumination to watch as the bathroom door closed- Will locking himself away from an audience of too many.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal glanced at the door with undisguised interest, sidling closer before realizing the motion was not entirely unlike a pet made pathetic in the separation of its owner. It could hardly be helped though. Will’s <em>process</em> was a matter of much discussion with little information. In both of his professions- within the halls of the FBI and the psychiatric circles- he wasn’t the only one a little more than interested in how Will’s brain operated on crime scenes.</p><p> </p><p>It was, if he gave it voice, maddening to have Will featured in so many aspects of his life only to have the man himself deny him so fervently.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t long before the door popped open, Will rushing out and shaking his head curtly. “Not the Ripper, Jack.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, seriously! There are too many similarities,” Zeller scoffed, tossing his arms up in the air.</p><p> </p><p>“There aren’t enough,” Will countered, turning to Jack with a firm shake. “Not him, Jack. I’m sure of it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you sure?” Jack asked.</p><p> </p><p>Will peered into the bathroom he had occupied moments earlier, gaze listless and distant- with the press of his fever or the indentations of his thought, Hannibal was unsure. “The Ripper left a victim in a church pew using his tongue as a page marker in the Bible he was holding. This isn’t that,” he said, the unspoken words that only Hannibal could seemingly hear making him warm. <em>That was beautiful. That was poetry made corporeal.</em> <em>This is a dumpsite. </em>“This is a medical student or a trainee. Someone trying to make an extra buck on a back-alley surgery and organ harvesting and it went bad. Actively bad.”</p><p> </p><p>Jack inhaled a sharp breath at the words, offering a slow and tentative nod in agreement. He was torn between halves- a relief that the Ripper had not descended upon the world once more to wreak havoc. A tragedy and slaughter of threes that would grip the community with fear and soft utterances of prayer- a muttered <em>thank god</em> when three victims were to be revealed and the knowledge that it was over at least for a moment. A hesitant peace shrouding them for the time being and the periods between the displays was almost as fun as the kills themselves, a respite that allowed those around him to fall into a lull that Hannibal would disrupt.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, there was also the glimmer of disappointment, an exhalation of defeat that the Ripper continued to elude him as if this one kill and the two more that would follow it would be where he slipped. Evidence discovered where once there was none and Jack could finally find the monster that plagued him for so long.</p><p> </p><p>Will sighed, lowering his voice as he leaned forward and muttered, “You’ll get him, Jack. You will. This isn’t him though.”</p><p> </p><p>A rare moment of kindness, the seams of a well-worn costume of a miserly and bitter man parting to reveal something soft beneath. Something that was quickly tucked away as Will clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder and turned to cut through the room once more- heading toward the door instead of bursting from within it.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I call you when it is?” Jack asked, causing Will to come to an abrupt stop- one hand curled around the door handle as he twisted behind him. He furrowed his brow, glancing at Jack expectantly. “You don’t care about the others, but Beverly said you’re obsessed with catching the Ripper. So will you help with that?”</p><p> </p><p>Will shot a withering glance at Beverly, her hands rising out in a motion of surrender. “I’m not obsessed with catching him,” he spoke, choosing his words with such care, enunciating them with such flourish. Hannibal leaned forward at that, curiosity prickling at his nerves. “I’m obsessed with <em>studying</em> him.”</p><p> </p><p>Jack nodded once, arching a brow as he said, “You have to catch him to study him.”</p><p> </p><p>Will scoffed, rolling his glassy eyes. But he didn’t move, standing in front of the closed door with his hand still curled around the knob, lips bulging as he chewed on the inside of his cheeks in thought. His mouth parted in a shaky exhale and he pinched his eyes closed as he said, “Vet them through Beverly. I’m still not unblocking you, though. God knows what sort of crime scenes you’ll drag me through by <em>suspecting</em> the Ripper.”</p><p> </p><p>The last sentence was mumbled, loud enough for everyone to hear though obscured behind an attempt to keep the slight private. Jack was unbothered by it, however, a slow and languid smile curling on his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you look like the cat who caught the canary,” Will sneered, finally twisting the door open and stepping through.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal moved to follow after him, the indignant words of one Beverly Katz tapering as he moved further away: <em>Oh, so I get to be the Will Wrangler, now?</em></p><p> </p><p>The air outside was cooler- the beginning chill of autumn crisp and pinching against his nose, flushing his skin. The room had become humid over a period of so long with too many people, regurgitated oxygen becoming stale and sour in the air and Hannibal inhaled sharply as he followed Will to his car- parked unevenly between the lines of the parking space.</p><p> </p><p>“Will,” he called, his voice level. He did not need to raise it, the constant thrum of investigative inquiries and conversation dull in the distance, all but one van of the CSU having left the scene. It was quiet, and Will heard him easily above the chirp of cicadas, shaking his head without turning around.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m in no mood-”</p><p> </p><p>“How did you know?” he asked, lips twitching as they resisted the pull of a smirk when Will slowed. He would have to thank Doctor Katz handsomely for such a gift. It seemed even Hannibal appeared tolerable as a conversationalist so long as the unseen specter that loomed in between them was the <em>Chesapeake Ripper</em>.</p><p> </p><p>How curious it was to think that he might be <em>jealous</em> of his own identity, Hannibal thought bemusedly.</p><p> </p><p>Will pulled his keys from his pocket, fumbling through them until he found the correct set and inserted it into the car door, pulling it open with a twist. He slumped into the seat but kept one foot on the pavement, the door held ajar by his knee. He reached into the center console, digging around napkins, receipts, and dirty coins until he found what he was looking for- a bottle of aspirin.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal approached the Jeep- old, but kept in good condition. Wheels and undercarriage dirty from driving over less than favorable terrain and he could see a blanket tossed in the backseat. Plaid and made from the sort of material that would scratch at his skin. Several packages of dog treats were tossed atop the pile of fabric- hardly a surprise, as beneath the pungent scent of that noxious aftershave was the distinct smell of dog and pine needles. Enough to build a picture of the man before him to know he spent his days outdoors when he wasn’t sinking into the mind of a killer. Running alongside some dogs- plural, it would have to be plural as the smell was too strong for it to be anything but. Two or three- maybe even four.</p><p> </p><p>“How did <em>you</em> know?” Will parroted, tossing a reckless amount of the drugs back in a dry swallow that strained the muscles in his throat.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal rose a brow. “I’m sorry?”</p><p> </p><p>“You knew it wasn’t the Ripper, either. How?” It was inquisitive, not accusatory and Hannibal considered the words for what felt like an appropriate amount of time before responding.</p><p> </p><p>“I suppose it just didn’t feel grand enough,” he said after a moment, nearly purring as Will nodded in agreement.</p><p> </p><p>“This,” he began, jabbing an index finger in the direction of the motel room, “is a clumsy rendition of an urban legend- the Ripper is his own urban legend.” The words were spoken in owe, restrained reverence that slid down Hannibal’s spine in a pleasant, thrilling shiver.</p><p> </p><p>There was a moment that he feared he was mistaken; that his curiosity with Will Graham was perhaps rooted in something to the left of what he initially believed it to be and he felt the unfamiliar trickle of doubt. That perhaps Will wasn’t as extraordinary as he thought him to, amplifying him in his own mind from a perception that was skewed and bias.</p><p> </p><p>But there it was- the <em>thing</em> he had seen from him when they first met. The sharp and insistent thing within his brain that recognized the one mirrored back at him.</p><p> </p><p>Will appreciated the beauty of his work- his tableaux seen in exaltation in such lovely blue eyes. It was <em>there</em>, and there was something within Will begging to be realized. A monster that had for too long been chained and ignored, starving and malnourished from Will’s inattention.</p><p> </p><p>Something that he could cultivate, help him to turn into the inspiration it was.</p><p> </p><p>Or, he would, if he could only get Will to <em>sit in the same room as him for longer than three minutes.</em></p><p> </p><p>Whatever spell had been cast at the mention of the Ripper dissipated, the rapturous glow in Will’s gaze dimming, disdain once more painting his face as he regarded Hannibal.</p><p> </p><p>“And don’t think I didn’t notice you didn’t show up with coffee the other day when you and Jack ambushed me,” he hissed, pulling his leg into the carriage and reaching for the door.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal grasped it, easing it closed as he leaned forward and smiled playfully at Will- earning a scowl in turn. He stepped back once the door was firmly shut, allowing Will the space to pull out without giving him an excuse to run over his toes.</p><p> </p><p>The car sped off with little ceremony, leaving Hannibal on the curb, the heady scent he managed to inhale still lingering in his nostrils. A fevered sweetness he had smelled once before.</p><p> </p><p>Will Graham wasn’t just sick.</p><p> </p><p>He had <em>encephalitis. </em></p><p>~x~</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal approached Beverly as she was loading up the remaining van, carefully setting the equipment she had used into the back. He affixed a congenial grin, a silent chuckle vibrating in his throat. The <em>Will Wrangler.</em></p><p> </p><p>It seemed an adequate title.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t realize you and Will were such close friends, Doctor Katz,” he said, bending at the waist to grab the tripod she was reaching for, sliding it gingerly alongside the case to the camera and all its attachments.</p><p> </p><p>She shrugged, brushing aside a lock of dark hair that fell into her face. “As close as one can be with him, I guess.” She offered him an amused grin, dark eyes bright as the sun inched slowly above the horizon, the muted colors of dusk casting a glow on the world. As if it were a sepia-colored photograph, made up of ambers and burnished golds.</p><p> </p><p>He returned the gesture, stepping back and reaching for the door nearest him to help close the van. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind helping me open up a line of communication with him. I admit to a great deal of interest in him and his teachings but I’m afraid the only interest he has in myself is how to best avoid me. Would it be so inappropriate to ask of your assistance?”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t seem surprised by the request, lips curling upward in a Cheshire fashion as if she had been waiting for the moment he might approach her. “Will thinks you’re stalking him,” she said, her tone lofty- void of the heavy drag a true accusation would make. Taunting.</p><p> </p><p>He looked baleful at the words, slipping his hands into his pockets and rolling his shoulders. “He’s mentioned.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you?”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ve crossed paths, I cannot lie about that. But I’ve never manufactured such a meeting, nor have I done something so uncouth as to observe him without alerting him to my presence,” he answered, his words sincere despite the insincerity and she hummed along thoughtfully. It was never a question; never a genuine concern in her mind that the man before her was anything but the polite if odd gentleman who possessed a hearty amount of professional curiosity in her friend. One he was sure she was familiar with, all too many psychiatrists and neurologists eager to get a poke into such a glorious mind. “Do you think I am?”</p><p> </p><p>She sobered at the question, glancing away and folding her arms across her chest. The quiet stretched between them as she chose her words with careful consideration- trying to decide how much truth to offer a man who Will clearly wanted to keep hidden in shadows. After several seconds, she said, “I think Will is very paranoid and careful about who he lets in. Which brings us back to your request. What exactly do you want?” She arched a slim brow, shifting her weight to lean forward, hips tilted back.</p><p> </p><p>“Convince Will to accompany you to my home for dinner,” he bargained, raising a hand to silence the laugh that sat on her tongue at the request, eyes widening comically. “Nothing more- I won’t even insist on dessert. Merely an hour and a half so that I may speak with him about his career, and perhaps see if I might get him to open up enough to trust me.” He paused, letting the jovial smile he had worn slip from his face in increments- replaced with a look of concern, parentheses pressing around his mouth as he frowned. He counted to three- an appropriate amount of time to keep hold of the conversation but for the somber change in tone to seem organic. “Surely as his friend, you’ve noticed how ill he seems as of late.” He said the words in a hushed voice, canting his torso forward to make the moment more intimate. Force the sort of bond that was forged when divulging secrets.</p><p> </p><p>She glanced away, eyes half-lidded. “He went to his doctor and they said he was fine. I told him to get a second opinion, but he’s pretty stubborn,” she said, words solemn and quiet. Her lips twitched into an artificial, forced grin as she added, “you know first hand about that, though.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m worried about him,” he continued, pointedly ignoring the deflection to humor. “He might think I have ulterior motives but I truly am worried.” He hesitated on his words, pinching his eyes closed as he inhaled slowly. “I was with him that day in Minnesota, the first time he’s ever taken a life. That changes a man, even one as stubborn as Will and I think his desire to keep it bottled away is making him ill. And my concern is only growing now that I know he may be stepping into crime scenes with more fervor. Perhaps, between the two of us, we can help him to at least know the support he needs will be there. He need only ask.”</p><p> </p><p>She considered him, gaze sharpened and discerning. She might have dubbed herself a half-friend, a person as close to Will as he would allow but it didn’t negate the fierceness of her title. That she was a <em>good</em> friend and was teetering on the decision. Her concern for Will and the clear decline in his health at odds with her desire to remain on the right side of his foul temper. To continue to be a half-friend instead of discarded with the rest. “He’ll be mad with me. He already is for letting it slip to Jack about his obsession with the Ripper. What do I get in exchange for this little setup?”</p><p> </p><p>He smiled coyly, a menu forming in his mind. It was well hidden- obscured behind too sharply enunciated syllables- but Hannibal could detect the faintest twang of an accent and he had read enough of what little could be found on Will to know he first began his career as a beat cop in Louisiana. He would make something Cajun- or rather, Cajun adjacent. Nothing too forward to further compound Will’s growing paranoia of him but enough for the flavors that would burst on his tongue to ease him. For him to taste the flavors of home and associate them with the man serving it to him. “I have an expansive collection of wine. All varietals and some exquisite vintages. Perhaps you’d like the chance to peruse the shelves while I turn my back for ten minutes? Whatever goes missing will be our little secret.”</p><p> </p><p>Her lips quivered at the suggestion. “Is there a limit?”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever you can discreetly abscond with is yours.”</p><p> </p><p>She rose her chin in challenge. “I can be very resourceful.”</p><p> </p><p>“I expect nothing less,” he teased, turning away from her with a conspiratorial nod of his head and a grin; mentally perusing the business cards stowed away in his kitchen and considering which pig would be fit to serve as the centerpiece for such a banquet.</p><p> </p><p>~x~</p><p> </p><p>“You barely even-” Beverly started, the words amputated as Will twisted around from where he sat in the armchair, brows furrowed and lips pulled into a snarl.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” he said firmly, raising the hand that stroked down the soft and furry back of the dog sprawled across his lap. Zoe rose her head, indignant that her petting had come to too soon an end, rumbling her displeasure until Will set his hand down and resumed the attention.</p><p> </p><p>Beverly rolled her eyes, legs crossed where she perched on the end of his bed. “Stop being so stubborn, Will. It’s one night and you get a free meal.”</p><p> </p><p>It seemed to him a gross oversimplification.</p><p> </p><p>It was bad enough he had to run into the man so frequently at work, but the one day he decided to offer more than passing ambivalent regard to himself and take the day off to nurse the fever and ache of his head away, the phantom of Hannibal's presence was marching in on Beverly’s heels. In his own home. A bag sat at her feet, the soup she had brought for him from his favorite cafe left to turn cold when he saw it for what it was- blatant bribery. He refused to accept gifts under such pretenses.</p><p> </p><p>“It won’t be free. I’ll have to <em>chat </em>with him,” he said, frowning as she rolled her eyes once more. He wasn’t certain if a gesture could be described as sarcastic, but she was giving it a good argument in its favor. “And a migraine. It’s <em>dangerous</em> what that man does with textiles. He dresses like a clown on his way to court so he can contest a parking ticket.”</p><p> </p><p>She laughed, a bright sound that made several of the dogs draped across the floor raise their heads, tails thumping noisily on the floor. “That’s why it will be fun. We can have dinner there and then afterward stop for ice cream and make fun of him and his pretentious home and his pretentious meal. My treat.”</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed. “Obviously it would be your treat,” he mumbled, glancing away from her to the look at the windows- pulled up as far as they could go so a non-too-delicate breeze brushed in from the screen. He was painfully aware of the sweat clinging to his flesh, making his thin cotton shirt adhere to the contours of his shoulders and chest and matting his hair. It was stifling in the home, an oppressive heat strangling his throat; though one glance in Beverly’s direction- bundled tightly in a thick sweater and her shoulders hunched, a gentle shiver trembling across her form- told him that it was more or less in his head. His fever still had yet to break.</p><p> </p><p>He was beginning to suspect it never would.</p><p> </p><p>“And I’m getting an extra scoop. And toppings,” he spat after several seconds of silence.</p><p> </p><p>She blinked, surprise evident on her face. “So you’ll go?”</p><p> </p><p>His sigh was almost performative, sputtering through his lips. He didn’t want to go- there were far better ways to spend a Friday evening than to have a meal with a man dressed like Elton John if Elton John were a lawyer. Taking advantage of the last few vestiges of summer to spend hours on the river that cut through his property, fishing as the dogs ran in the fields around him. Sitting in his own sweat and trembling with chills as his brain threatened to splinter his skull into fragments.</p><p> </p><p>Volunteering to be the punching bag for the local Mixed Martial Arts club in town.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, there was something appealing about the prospect. Not the dinner that would test his resolve to not stab Hannibal in the jugular when the words Bearnaise or chiffonade left his mouth and certainly not the host in question. But there was something telling about a home- secrets painted on the wall and truths set upon the table like a centerpiece. There was nowhere for him to hide from Will’s prying eyes when he was so utterly and wholly around him, saturating into the furniture and the décor that promised to be as heinous as his fashion sense.</p><p> </p><p>Because the most frustrating thing about Hannibal Lecter wasn’t his insistence to be around Will or even the mere fact of his existence- it was that there was something undeniably <em>off</em> simmering beneath the surface of too-many patterns and expensive fabrics. Something that was- and he was loath to admit it- interesting enough to him that he might allow a modicum of torture to unearth it.</p><p> </p><p>A curiosity he would sate after careful prodding of his home- a shameless thrill running through him at the thought of rummaging through his drawers and medicine cabinets.</p><p> </p><p>What sort of things did Hannibal Lecter keep stowed away?</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe he’ll leave me alone for good if I’m a bad enough dinner guest,” he thought, mind already teeming with ways to harass him- all the different offenses he could manage within the evening that would end whatever fascination he had with him. Elbows on the table, talking with a mouthful of food. Maybe he would even steal something from him, a private debt that he quietly collected in the form of a trinket that would not be missed until it was too late to turn out Will’s pockets. “What did he bribe you with?” he asked after a moment, a grin stretching across his face when she gave a lascivious smirk at the question.</p><p> </p><p>“I get to pilfer his alcohol,” she answered with a wink.</p><p> </p><p>“Grab a whiskey on your way out if you can. Make sure it’s expensive,” he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as he added, “and a Dom Perignon. He’s exactly the sort of fucker to have Dom Perignon.”</p><p> </p><p>~x~</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The results of our poll from the previous chapter (From both tumblr and this site, and including the dual votes of all those eager beavers who chose more than one):</p><p>A.) Caught in the rain: 2</p><p>B.) Converse with the Unconscious: 4</p><p>C.) Fake-out Make-out: 2</p><p>D.) Hands-On Teaching: 6</p><p>E.) Ferris Wheel Moment: 2</p><p>F.) Slap-Slap-Kiss: 12</p><p>SLAP-SLAP-KISS IS THE WINNER! (No surprise, it’s a very Hannigram sort of trope.)</p><p>That isn’t to say none of the others won’t appear (there’s a part of me that wants to test the limits of my writing ability by using all of these while still straddling that fine line we’ve established of not-quite-a-crack-fic-but-definitely-not-respectable.) While I’m not sure I can work a Ferris wheel into the story without veering into contrived-plot-device land, I have toyed with the idea of a trope that shares the same sentiments: locking these two idiots in a malfunctioning elevator. Huh, huh??!?! Please validate me.</p><p>Regardless, a pivotal scene in the story will feature a Slap-Slap-Kiss trope, and everything else I decide to use will be between me, my word processor, and God. </p><p>(Also, I may or may not have a running note in my phone of all the insults Will uses to describe Hannibal’s clothes in this story and I’m just opening it up and selecting one at random when the time calls for it)</p><p>(ALSO ALSO- YES I KNOW THE REPLICATOR IS A BAD NAME, IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE STOP @ ME ABOUT IT OR I’M GOING TO TELL MOM)</p><p>Next Up: The dinner party from hell</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Next up: Hannibal tries a few more times to get Will to notice him. In a way he does. He notices how fucking weird the guy is. </p><p>Also, shameless plugging for my tumblr where I post sneak peeks to WIP's and whatnot. Reneehartblog.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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